


Found Objects

by Jazzy_Kandra



Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, Mistborn - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: F/M, Spoilers for Bands of Mourning and Mistborn: Secret History
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 05:59:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9643559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jazzy_Kandra/pseuds/Jazzy_Kandra
Summary: More than ten years after the events of the Wax and Wayne series, Waxillium finds he is not impressed by Modern art or its practitioners.Sequel to Collectible, part of the Mistshot series.





	

Wax had agreed to go to the exhibition because he had  _nothing_ better to do, and well, Steris had insisted. Rotting at home like a piece of old-furniture under a white sheet was not the way he wanted to spend retirement. 

 _Admit it_ , he thought, examining the gallery of truly...strange...’art’, Steris’ arm wrapped around his; they shuffled throughout the exhibition, abut slowly and stiffly,  _you’re bored, Wax...and curious._  
  
It was like a new mystery, waiting for him to solve it.

Rumors abounded at parties and other functions he still found himself attending, the nobility and wealthy whispered about the frightening, sometimes ‘horrifying’ art. They said painters had gone wild. That they used bright colors, strange shapes, and lines of all kinds. Creating ‘abstract’ art (whatever the hell that meant, exactly) of every kind: from ‘landscapes’ to ‘portraits’ to ‘sculptures’. Worse still, were the found objects, things taken from everyday life and then chosen by artists as art. The whole upper-crust of Elendel was in a panic about an art gallery...At first, however, Wax didn’t give a damn.  
  
He didn’t even  _like_  art.

Then MeLaan had flung a newspaper in his face (more or less) that morning.(1) He muttered something about being ‘too old for whatever crap she had found,’ She’d responded with a candid reply about  _her_ age, which didn’t count, after all, she was an immortal, but Wax hadn’t gotten a word in edge-wise before she pointedly strutted out of the room to talk with Wayne. Wayne had never moved out of Ladrian manor, and when Wayne had married MeLaan...they’d just acquired a new house ‘guest’.  
  
Leaning back into his plush chair, Wax had taken a sip of whiskey from the glass the kandra had brought him behind Steris’ back; (his wife insisted that one of the causes of his... _health_ issues...was whiskey, he doubted it, though, chasing after criminals had done hell to the knees and back). Wax glanced down at the newspaper...and stared, blankly at it.  
  
There was a photograph of a _...urinal_  on the front page?  
  
He fished for the reading glasses Wayne had given him(2) on the end table. After sliding them on the tip of his nose, feeling momentary disgusted by their presence.

Even with said lenses on, Wax squinted.

Indeed, an urinal.

Wax’s eye twitched. It hadn’t done that in nearly a decade...but...  
  
”Damn.”  
  
That episode had brought them here, to this gallery, surrounded by the strangest  _rust_ he had ever seen. Each piece had a plaque, some plaques described the art, others said  _nothing_  at all related, and Steris  _insisted_  that they stop at each, damn piece. To gawk, to stare, to admire it, he guessed, Wax didn’t know what nobles even  _did_ at art exhibitions.

Except maybe wish they had stayed home instead. His feet hurt, his knees ached, and he rubbed the small of his back to alleviate its pain. He wasn’t even that  _old_  yet, but damn he sometimes felt like a man in his nineties, not fifties.  
  
”And this,” his beautiful wife said, dragging him over to a sculpture that looked like a giant railroad  _spike_  hammered into a wooden stole, “Is a piece by Kay, he is a wonderful artist, renowned for his ‘readymades’...”  
  
”Kay?” He frowned. That named sounded...strangely familiar. He couldn’t place it. Maybe he had read it in the newspaper...or heard it on the radio. Wax wasn’t sure what to make of this  _Spiking thin air_ , either, except that he  _doubted_  some random... Wax bowed his head then whispered in her ear, “It looks like hemalurgy...or a mockery of it...”  
  
Spikes in  _dead_  wood couldn’t bestow powers or attributes to that object. Even if it was charged, it was losing whatever Investiture it had, its powers slowly slithering back to Harmony. Still...he lifted a hand to his chin in thought.

”He’s an  _artist_ ,” she rebuked; then tugged on his arm, trying to urge him to move on. Wax hadn’t expected her to be so... _excited_  about this. Yet, Steris’ subtle smile hadn’t left her face since they had arrived, almost an hour ago.  
  
“That doesn’t mean he couldn’t also be a...”

“ _Waxillium_ ,” from her tone of voice he knew he was in trouble, “ _you will not...”_

Despite her warning, Wax burned steel (which MeLaan had slipped into his whiskey), checking the spike.

It was... _heavily_  Invested metal, he couldn’t Push it.  _Iron, probably_. Too heavily Invested to be a spike, considering that the show had been going on for a few weeks. Probably a metalmind.  
  
_Huh._  Kay had an interesting sense of humor, it seemed.  _If I didn’t know better..._

“Is there any more work by him?”

Her brow furled slightly as she considered his words. “Yes...”

“It’s probably innocent...”

Steris sighed.

“I couldn’t Push it,” he whispered. This made her eyes widen, he noted a small fire in their blue depths. Excitement. Thrill, even. Wax nodded. “Does Kay have any more sculptures at this exhibition?”

“There are some others pieces of work, yes,” Steris said, leading him away, “if it gets too dangerous...”

“I’m sure it will not,” he answered, “I’m retired.”

She flattened her lips.

“It’s not like...”

“You brought your ironminds?”

He nodded. Of course he had. He didn’t feel  _comfortable_  walking around at his  _actual_ weight. He hadn’t done so in years; even months into his retirement, Wax hadn’t let go of vital, old habits.

“And?”

“Two.”

She glanced at the two holstered guns, their tips sticking out under his coat, then at the  _third_  one on his leg, and up at the  _fourth_ one _,_ too, which was in a holster on his left arm. It was a small, experiment weapon Ranette had given him a few months back. Ranette, like both MeLaan and Wayne, insisted his retirement was fake.  
  
“Four.”

“I couldn’t...”

“Learn the meaning of retirement in only three months, therefore, I must act like it’s a clever jest pulled on me by my wife...,” she said, he smiled, “try not to make a scene  _here_ , it’s an art gallery.”

“That’s  _art_?” Wax pointed at a strange painting, two light blue gears on a green background. It looked more like a diagram for a weird machine than it did a any art  _he_  had ever seen. A cruel mockery of it, considering that the artist had labeled one gear ‘woman’ and the other ‘man’.

“It’s a  _Spool_.”

“Is that what it’s called?”

“Spool’s the  _artist_ ,” she answered, taking his hand then slowly leading him away.  
  
Soon, they entered another room. From the plaques, he saw that all these  _pieces_ were works by Kay. Like the  _Spiking thin air_ , most were everyday objects, or slightly modified things. One sculpture was a chair laid on its side. Another was a tall, slender box of glass filled with random pieces of metal: nails, screws, and other things situated to make plain of metallic pieces. A few abstract paintings hung on the wall. In the center of all this ‘art’ stood the  _urinal_ , on a thick, wooden pole, like it was some kind of strange...

 _Is it supposed to be a spear?_ He chewed his inner cheek.

 _“_ If you burn steel,” said someone behind them, “you’ll see what’s actually  _there_.”

Wax glanced over his shoulder, then, turned around slowly. That  _had_  to be the artist. Wax had read in that earlier article that Kay was a tall, blond haired man whom often wore well-tailored suits. Kay did not dress the part of the typical, poor artist. He wore his hair long, bangs falling past his right eye, which, Wax noted, was covered by a thick, black patch. Kay’s one good eye was lined, hazel; all things considered, he looked like one of Wayne’s fictional pirates in a nice suit.  
  
Wax didn’t like him. The paper said he was twenty-nine, he looked more like fifty. Either time had lied to Kay, or he had lied to them.

“Come again?”

Kay grinned. “Burn steel.”  
  
Wax did as asked, curiosity pecking at the back of his brain. The grin on Kay’s face grew larger, a little wild, a little feral.  _That_  caused Wax to frown...he looked back at the glass box, not sure...  
  
Wax blinked, then stared.

He hadn’t noticed it before, but now that he burned steel, he saw...that some of the pieces of metal in the glass box were noticeably more faint than others. They formed a picture, one that only a person who could burn iron or steel could see, and only if they were  _looking_  for it. It was supposed to look like any other piece of...chaotic anti-art in the gallery. Ironically meaningless, mocking the upper class that expected art to appeal to their aesthetic tastes...

But, this...was beautiful. The portrait of a woman, her hair blowing in the wind. A portrait only people like him could see. It must have meant that Kay could burn iron or steel, too.

And...Wax realized he  _knew_  that woman...it... He swiveled around, then glared at Kay.

 _You’re getting slow in your old age_ ,  _Wax_ , he told himself. In the old days, he would’ve known when he saw the blond hair and the ill-fitting, thick eye-patch. 

“You’re  _him_.”

“He doesn’t like this idea,” replied Kay, crossing his arms, “but as I have assured him,  _no one_  would  _think_  to look for it.”

Wax heard something that may have amounted to a sigh... It did not sound like Steris, who had tensed up beside him. Only a few others were in this part of the exhibit, and none were close enough for Wax to have heard the their conversation. He’d left his earring in. The others in the room looked blurry, they were inside a speed-bubble.  
  
On instinct, Wax reached for one of his guns.  
  
“Please,” Kay said, still wearing that obnoxious smile, “we’re in an  _art_  gallery.”

His hand remained on its handle. Yes, he  _knew_  it was useless, but cosmere be damned, he wouldn’t...  
  
“You won’t kill me with that.” Kay—no, Kelsier—Pushed, gently, on the weapon. “It’s not worth shooting the whole gallery up for this, is it?”

Wax nodded, hand dropping to his side. A part of Wax doubted he could draw and fire fast enough to do  _any_ damage anyway.  
  
“You inspired the whole countryside to near rebellion.”(3)

He raised an eyebrow. “I gave them hope.” At these words, Steris squeezed Wax’s hand.

“And the Set—”

“Kid, why in hell would I want Scandrial to be destroyed?” The grin melted off his face. His gaze hardened. “ _We_ want to protect this world, not destroy it.”

Wax did not answer. He...Harmony had not given him all the facts, and Wax hadn’t asked, presuming god wouldn’t give him those kinds of answers. Wax had jumped to conclusions, ran with (the little) evidence he and Marasi had on that matter…  
  
“Then why?”

“It’s a gift,” he said, not answering the question Wax wanted, but Wax was not completely sure what question to ask, either.  
  
_Are you still friends?_ Wax asked.

Harmony did not respond.  
  
That sent a chill up his spine.

“Harmony and I do not always agree on how things should be done,” he said.

Steris grew pale, her hand, cold. Wax studied his wife, she hadn’t spoken once in the whole exchange, but her eyes had grown wide and she trembled beside him in both shock and fear. Wax placed an arm around her shoulders. It wasn’t everyday that one meant their god in an art gallery.

“He doesn’t always like the actions I take, and I can’t say I like  _his_  choices either, but neither of us wanted the Set to succeed.”

“And you left it to us,” Wax said, “you let...”

“I did  _help.._.” But how, Wax knew, Kelsier would not tell. No, Kelsier wasn’t the kind of person who would reveal such things. Oh no, they might hinder his _current_ plans, whatever those were. He imagined that working with Kelsier was just as aggravating as working with VenDell had been. No, Wax expected nothing but non-answers from the Survivor himself. “Where I could...it’s not about  _my_  ability to survive, to overcome...”

“But ours...” said Steris.

Kelsier smiled at Steris’ words, unlike before, it touched his eye. Wax hadn’t heard that the Survivor was known for being sincere.  
  
“But you’re going to  _buy_  this piece.”

“What.”

“Or appear to,” he said, gesturing to the slender, glass case filled with metal, “it’s a gift...an apology, in a way.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Fullborn  _need_  not make sense,” he said. Wax felt a headache starting at his temples. He’d need a drink after this. “Bend-alloy’s running out, dropping in three...two...”

“We’ll make sure to send one of our servants to retrieve it soon,” Steris said, “it is a wonderful piece, I am a great admirer of yours.”  
  
How could she say say that with such a straight look on her face?

“Thank you,” Kelsier replied, taking her hand, he placed something in the pocket of her coat as he kissed the tips of her fingers. A part of Wax wanted to punch that obnoxious bastard for that last move. That was _his_ Steris. “My lady?”

“Steris Ladrian.”

After a few more pleasantries, they left the gallery in a rush, Steris nearly dragging him away. Her eyes never met his until they reached their car and slipped into the back seat. Wax still hated motored vehicles, but no one in their class traveled in horse drawn carriages anymore.

 _If I hate cars so much,_ Wax thought, distracted momentarily, w _hat do four-hundred year old men think of these things?_

Even when they settled into their seats and Steris glared at him until he buckled his seat belt, his wife did not speak. Instead, she stared out the window, watching the city pass them by as their driver, Hoid, took them home.

“Steris?” he asked, breaking the awkward silence that had filled the cab. The driver had shut the small plastic window between him and the cab to give them some privacy, though he could probably here their conversation despite that.

“He was not what I expected,” she said at long last.

“Harmony is not what  _I_ expected,” he answered, placing an arm around her shoulder and bringing her to rest her head against his chest. “Not even now, but the first time we spoke I was being shot at.”

She giggled, though he could hear the faint echo of tears in her voice, “He’s hard...cold why did he insist on us having it?”

Minutes passed. Quiet, uncertain minutes in which he gathered his thoughts.

“Wax?”

“What did he place in your pocket?”

She blinked, then checked the pocket of her coat. Steris took out a small coin attached to a ribbon, bearing the engraving of Sovereign's face; it was a metalmind like the Southerners used.  _Bastard._

“It’s a portrait that can only be seen when one burns iron or steel,” he answered.

“Fascinating,” she replied, staring at the medallion for a few minutes. The face of that coin…was it the same as the one he had received from the beggar all those years ago? Damn. He wished he had his spectacles.... “It’s a con, isn’t it?”

This suggestion left Wax bewildered. Just...like the rest of the art. But Kelsier was a con man, the Historica said,  _of course_  it was just another con.

“We can see the portrait,” she said, “but most of our guests will see it as just a strange and frivolous piece of modern art without meaning or importance. The elderly, eccentric couple who...”

Wax touched her tearstained cheek. Gently, she placed her hand over his, meeting his steady gaze at last.

“It might be better that way...”

She cocked an eyebrow.

“It’s of Lessie.”

His sweet wife squeezed his hand, she did not speak, and neither did he. He was not certain what to say, sometimes...words could do little to speak truths.

 _Some days,_ Harmony said,  _I think, he may be my friend, Waxillium. Others, I am certain we are enemies. More and more often, however, I am simply unsure. But he cares for this world, its people...he does love it..._

_Though he does not understand what that means._

000

Three days later, Kay the artist was declared dead by authorities. If Kelsier were to ask Marsh, it was a little too dramatic, but he  _liked_ the idea that most of Kay’s art had gone up in smoke. It seemed a fitting fate for art that was supposed to be anarchic by nature, and Kay had burned up with it, a victim of a terrible accident although the authorities never found the body. Kelsier had simply left the burning building, joined the crowd, and slipped past all the chaos in the streets.

No one else had been there, he’d made sure of it. Sazed would probably give him an earful anyways; after all, he had destroyed the work of others as well as his own, and destroyed a building, too.

He stored Connection in a metalmind, using it to give him some peace, though Sazed would speak to him about this happenstance eventually.  _Or,_ he thought, sitting on one of the highest ledges on top of one of Elendel’s newest skyscrapers,  _he may send Marsh._  
  
What a joy that would be.  _Another lecture..._ He loved his brother, but Marsh could be a serious pain in the ass at times.

Sazed had yet to do so. Instead, he perched alone, looking out over Elendel as night fell over the city. The stars above, the Red Ripe too, filling him with worry, and the mist below, covering street and building alike. It was a thick mist tonight, nearly as thick as the nights in Luthadel. A few strands reached the ledge, licking his feet, attracted by his Allomancy.  
  
He smiled. Tin and Steel burned warmly in his stomach, but even that could not fully chase away the late winter chill, even in a city that rarely ever received snow. Here though, he could wrap his mistcloak around his body tightly, and watch the night pass by in peace, tapping Wakefulness to keep sleep at bay...Soon, however, he spotted a dark figure bounding up through the mists.

Even after more than three-and-a-half centuries, Marsh lacked the gracefulness of a Mistborn. His spikes had granted him immense power, but his Pushes and Pulls were always a tad too strong, a bit too powerful. Whereas a Mistborn’s leaps and bounds were like a dancer flying through the mists, Marsh had as much grace as Windrunner falling with style. (4)

Marsh eventually reached the ledge, although he had to Push on it to slow down his fall, denting it slightly. He landed on the skyscraper with a  _thud_ , announcing his presence, but Kelsier continued to peer down at the streets, watching the electric lights form pools of white or yellow in the mists.

“Kelsier.”

“Good evening, Marsh.” He raised a hand at his brother, but did not turn his head as he heard him approach.

Like a fellow gargoyle, Marsh sat on the roof beside him. “Burning down art galleries?” his brother asked in that soft, gravelly voice he had managed to acquire throughout the centuries. It really had helped Marsh to make a frightening Death, all things considered. It was a nice finishing to the doom and groom vibe that his black cloak and multiple spikes helped to create. Appearance wise, he was an excellent choice for the role, personality wise, though, he still had a lot to work on.

Marsh was still too kind to be Death.

“Everyone was fine.” Kelsier waved a hand, trying to push back Marsh’s accusation like he might push the mist into the earth. Neither worked very well.

“They found a boy’s body in the debris.”

He meant his brother’s spiked eyes. “I didn’t...”

“Know?”

“There wasn’t anyone  _there,”_ he argued, standing, anger powering his steps as he began to pace the ledge, “I swear, I checked...”

“He went in to save  _you,”_ said Marsh.

He ran a hand through his now, short blond hair. It still covered most of his right eye, though he had removed the patch and stuck it in his pocket. “It...who?”

“They weren’t sure.”

He stopped pacing, standing at the opposite end of the ledge, glaring down the city like his...accident was its fault.

“And Harmony?” He lifted his head.

Marsh lips bent upwards a tad. “You know how he feels about telling us the last moments of others before they pass onto the Beyond.”

Harmony believed that each person deserved privacy when they died. He’d only gotten to speak with...a few when Harmony requested it and if he was in the Cognitive Realm at the time. Most of those had been Survivorists; or  _their_ friends, like Breeze and Ham.

“How old was he?” 

“Eighteen,” came his brother’s answer, “twenty at most. They were not sure.” 

Vin’s age when...His mouth grew dry. Thinking of that made him feel old, tired, but not the kind of tiredness a Feruchemist could simply store in a metalmind and be done with. No, it was the strange kind of weariness which sometimes came to those who had lived for so long... Kelsier gathered his cloak around him as though to shield him from both cold and time itself.

“Damn.” He sighed, staring out into the mists.  
  
He hadn’t...meant it to go so far. He often did not like it when it did. He had gone too far with Spook, even with the Southerners, but he couldn’t always tell what  _too far_  looked like, when he went to the extent that he toyed with the hearts’ of people he tried to help. 

Preservation’s command not to do so still whispered in his Soul. It left him feeling something close to guilt, but what Marsh said next did not.

“And you destroyed all that art.”

“Anti-art,” he corrected, holding up a finger, “it was almost a perfect con.”

Marsh frowned. His brother probably thought he should have been more somber, but, he was Kelsier, somber was boring. “ _Kelsier_ ,” he said, “you destroyed a whole  _building...”_

A part of him laughed at that. Of all the things Marsh could reprimand him for, a building seemed like the  _least_  thing on that list, considering that he'd nearly brought down a whole civilization, once.

Still, that had been centuries ago. They had to step much more carefully now...

 _“_ They have insurance,” he answered, shrugging. “Listen, do you know how many wealthy bastards were frightened or bewildered by that crap? They tried to give meaning to shit.”

“You made  _shit_ , art.”

“I made them  _think_  it was art,” he said, grinning. “They bought into it,  _literally_ , it’s nearly as good as that time I tricked all those Elantrians to believe I was Ruin.”

If his brother had eyes, he might have rolled them. Instead, lips flattened informing Kelsier that he had properly annoyed him. “That...”

“Was brilliant.”

Marsh grunted.

“Bridge Four?” he asked, “Rosharans grunt so much that _grunts_ are now their common tongue. Considering how many  _languages_ they have, it's the only one that they all can completely comprehend.”  
  
This elicited a chuckle at least. They again sat together in companionable silence, the night quickly passing into early dawn. The first rays of sunshine covered the city, bathing the city in red light, turning the skyscrapers into dark silhouettes against the rising sun. He dimmed his tin, letting it simmer, sunrises up here were brilliant, but he only had one eye to see them with, the other couldn’t tell the difference between night or day.  
  
It had its uses, other than creating a Connection to his Physical form. With the old Inquisitor spike, he could see any trace metals in buildings, ground, or even people, and use those to Push or Pull as needed. By creating a puncture in the Spiritual then through the Cognitive and into the Physical Realm, it let his Investiture into his his old body, anew, providing a new string. Spikes pierced into the soul. There was more to it than that, but each day was a new one taken, stolen for—

“Brother,” he frowned, but looked up at Marsh as he spoke, “why did you give that portrait to Waxillium?”

 _Why does this feel like one of Saze’s inquiries?_  He did not ask that, Marsh should have been proud. Perhaps age had quelled his tongue a tad at long last. “It was a gift.”

Marsh stared at him with those spiked eyes. Even Kelsier sometimes found them unnerving despite having one of his own.

“Is it possible that I feel some guilt for all that occurred? Or...something akin to it?”

“Is it that...or...?”

“I just wanted to help.” He wasn’t sure if that was true, or if he had just wanted to present his ironic anti-art. Anarchy with a solution. He wasn’t a good man, after all, Vin had taught him that. He had too much ego to be truly good, no matter how hard he tried... In some ways, his Connection to others was frayed...broken.

“Alright,” he said, throwing Marsh his infamous insufferable grin, “it was about style too.“  
  
All he got in reply was yet another grunt which quickly transformed into a gravelly sigh. His brother just had to accept it was one of those days.

000

1) MeLaan has a passion for throwing newspapers in people’s faces, apparently, she did this to TenSoon and now has done it to Wax too. She also will probably do it to Wayne too.

2) Imagine how that went. lol.  
  
3) Since  _Alloy_ , lone persons have mentioned seeing Kelsier in the countryside encouraging them; in  _Bands of Mourning_ , some of the captured Set members mentioned stories of the Survivor stuffed into their head (to incite Civil War). Assuming Wax heard of the later stories from Marasi, he is drawing assumptions about Kelsier’s role/relationship with the Set (which will probably not be destroyed, I think, but will prove to be a much larger threat than we know). Whether or not Kelsier is the one in control of the Set…well…

It doesn’t seem to align with his own long-term goals such as protecting Scadrial and learning about the cosmere. That is _my_ opinion, though, and whether or not Kelsier agrees with that, we’ll just have to wait and see…

4) Yes, this assumes that Kelsier has been to Roshar, and  _doesn’t_  think that Windrunning is as graceful as Allomancy. What an elitist. Second, yes, this assumes that Kelsier is a worldhopper. For those aware, Cogntive Shadows have a hard time worldhopping, but Kelsier is _good_ at breaking the rules. He’ll figure it out, I think, especially in a 300-year span (holding Preservation probably helped too).


End file.
